84: Chapter 84: Transplant Records Exposed, Both Sides Trapped in a Mess

Musk pressed down on the thin bone fragment with his gloved fingertip, his expression as grim as a scout who had just returned from gathering intel in enemy territory.

“A skeletal model.”

“They studied the skeletal structure of Grey Aliens; this is a literal physical model.”

“This thing has the same sequence logic as the telomerase enhancement factor we isolated in the eyeball fluid tests, but the direction is completely different.”

“Those people didn't just take an eyeball; they have a complete body.”

Edward didn't speak.

He crouched on the floor in another corner of the room, with more shredded record fragments scattered before him.

He didn't use any scanning instruments. Instead, using his gray-blue eyes—eyes belonging to an old-school politician of several decades, accustomed to piecing together an opponent's hidden cards from a floor full of shredded paper—he picked them up and pieced them together, one by one.

His movements were very slow and meticulous,

until the edge of one fragment aligned with the side of another, revealing four complete lines of clinical trial records.

He shone his flashlight on it, stared for a moment, and his expression suddenly darkened.

What was written on those two fragments wasn't a skeletal model, nor a material test, nor some abstract study of an alien specimen.

It was a heart transplant surgery record!

Most of the text between the various sectional indicators had been torn or charred at the edges, but once pieced together, several key descriptions remained completely legible:

[Donor heart completely extracted from a living Grey Alien individual],

[Recipient is an adult human male],

[During the surgery, the recipient's immune rejection was temporarily suppressed, but the donor organ rapidly resumed beating on its own after cold perfusion ended],

[Transplant Test No. 11-γ],

[Note: Long-term follow-up has been canceled]...

Following the word 'canceled' near the edge, the researcher who wrote the report had scribbled an ellipsis at the end of the page, along with two incomplete words:

“Donor has already...”

Standing behind him, Musk finished reading those few lines, the beam of his flashlight trembling slightly on the paper.

His breath caught for a split second, causing a slight shift in his arm muscles.

He aimed the flashlight back at those two lines of fragmented text, then lifted his eyes from the record to lock gazes with Edward for a brief moment.

Neither of them spoke.

But in their minds, they were simultaneously deducing the exact same logical chain:

The Longevity Faction wasn't simply dismantling and reverse-engineering alien ship wreckage, nor were they just using the Grey Aliens' eyeballs, skin, and bones to make a few vials of reagents.

They carved the alien heart out of a living Grey Alien's chest cavity and transplanted it into one of their own!

They wanted to run an alien life support system inside a human body!

Transplanting Grey Alien organs to achieve longevity, or even immortality!

This was no longer a conspiracy theory deduction; it was clinical data written line by line in experimental records!

“Organ transplants... they didn't just take materials, they didn't just reverse-engineer the ship—they transplanted a Grey Alien's heart into a human!”

Musk placed the torn piece of paper back onto the pile on the floor. His voice was kept extremely low, but every syllable carried a heavy, dull weight, as if it had just been dragged out of freezing water.

“When I got that eyeball, I thought that was the limit.”

“As it turns out, they've been dismantling alien body parts and installing them into themselves since 1947.”

Edward placed the pieced-together record neatly on the ground, weighed it down with a small pebble, and slowly stood up.

The expression on his face was as steady as always, but the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were nearly twice as deep as usual.

“If the data on this is real, then the Longevity Faction has more than just a few vials of liquid zero in their hands.”

“They have complete surgical protocols, living donors, and a window of several decades to repeatedly trial and error.”

“And we, the people of the free world, originally thought we were just playing political assassination games with a bunch of old bureaucrats. Who would have thought they had spent decades sewing an alien heart into a living human chest?”

In the few seconds of silence they both shared,

Edward's political intuition suddenly bypassed his scientific analysis of all these records, hitting directly upon another, far more lethal deduction.

He abruptly snapped his head around to look in the direction they had come from.

The main door was wide open, and there were only a few Retainers guarding the outer perimeter.

And he had stepped into this laboratory abandoned by the Longevity Faction under the guise of being a lackey for the Tech Faction.

As his vocal cords tightened, his pitch didn't rise, but his tempo quickened by a beat:

“This is Longevity Faction territory.”

“Whether they have withdrawn or are watching from the shadows, us stepping foot in here as members of the Tech Faction is, in their eyes, crossing the line.”

His pause was brief, but Musk knew what it meant.

“And the Longevity Faction and the Tech Faction are mortal enemies.”

“The two of us... are currently right in the heart of their territory.”

Musk's pupils contracted slightly under the white beam of the tactical flashlight, and then he suddenly let out a soft laugh.

It wasn't one of relief, but a grim, cold laugh of someone whose mind becomes exceptionally clear after being pushed to the brink of death.

“Joshua told me that finding this base would prove my strength. I thought he wanted mapping data.”

“It turns out what he wanted me to prove was simple: only by walking out of the Longevity Faction's nest alive would I be qualified to continue talks with the Tech Faction.”

“And now...”

He switched off his flashlight, drew his gun from his waist, and addressed his entourage, who were still trying to dig up more intel from the piles of waste paper:

“...We are currently right in the Longevity Faction's nest.”

“Anyone who doesn't want to fight can leave.”

The retired special forces operators under his command looked at each other, but not a single one actually walked out.

However, Captain Brick, wearing night-vision goggles, still crouched near the doorframe keeping watch, his fingers tightening and relaxing on his rifle's foregrip more frequently than usual.

The squad he led were all veterans who had seen close-quarters firefights in the underground bunkers of Afghanistan and Baghdad,

but what lay before them now was not a standard firefight. They were stepping into a dark realm far beyond their level of comprehension,

not knowing what kind of weapons the enemy possessed, or what they could even do with their M4 carbines.

The Warren Family's death soldiers were completely different.

They kicked away the broken concrete chunks in the corner of the cover, recalibrated their earpiece channels, and pointed their muzzles toward the door. Their expressions were dull and impassive; not a single one asked a question.

Then, the first gunshot rang out from the direction of the main door.

It wasn't an assault rifle, but a pistol—the crisp, distinct crack of a Glock 19M.

Followed immediately by a second shot, then a third,

tight, short bursts ricocheting off the edge of the alloy door panel, the stray bullets striking a half-hidden old nameplate and sending sparks flying.

Several of Edward's Retainers were crouching with their weapons in the corridor ahead, using alternating suppressive fire to force back the intruders at the entrance,

while on the other side, someone was shouting at the top of their lungs in the darkness:

“FBI! Drop your weapons! FBI!”

Musk and Edward dashed outward simultaneously, with the tactical squad hot on their heels.

As they reached the doorframe,

a stocky, middle-aged man with olive-colored short hair was being blocked by three Retainers less than six feet outside the alloy door.

He held up a Federal Bureau of Investigation badge wallet in his left hand, while his right hand gripped a Glock that had already run dry. His chest heaved violently as he continued to yell that the FBI was executing a search warrant,

and standing behind him were Lewis, Rivera, Owens, and several other agents wearing plainclothes FBI bulletproof vests.

Amidst the lingering click of his Glock's slide locking back on an empty chamber, Moran lowered his barrel, held his badge steady, and swept his eyes over the group inside the door. He then clearly recognized the faces of the two men standing by the side of the alloy door—

one was the veteran senator from Nevada, and the other was the rocket-madman the entire world had seen on television.

He lowered his badge wallet, panting heavily. His face bore none of the confidence of an investigator who had cracked a case and found the culprit after entering the base; instead, it was filled with shock and confusion.

“Edward? Musk? You... the two of you... are you telling me you're part of the Deep State?”

Musk holstered his gun, spreading his hands in a half-reassuring, half-defensive gesture. His tone sounded like he was explaining a corporate structure to an intern who had just stumbled into a board meeting.

“Not quite yet. We're on probation.”

He tilted his head toward Edward, his tone suddenly shifting from explanatory to a serious addendum,

“The interview results aren't out yet, but they should be tonight.”

Edward took a step forward from the side of his Retainers, nodding slightly to Moran. His tone was level, but his phrasing was as precise as a live draft revision in the Senate Foreign Relations Committee.

“Moran, you should ask your question with more precision.”

“The Deep State has two factions.”

“Which faction are you asking about?”

Moran opened his mouth, his dry lips twitching a few times, but he couldn't squeeze out a single word.

The FBI agents beside him, who had been forced behind the cold concrete walls of the bedrock tunnel during the brief clash just now, all lowered their muzzles toward the ground, but their ears were fully perked up, listening intently.

It took Moran several seconds to digest Edward's words.

The first layer of reflection that surged in his mind wasn't 'so the Deep State actually has factions,' but rather his superior, who had lied to him from start to finish.

He shoved his empty gun back into his shoulder holster and slammed his badge wallet onto the ground. Completely disregarding his dignity as an FBI official, he began cursing furiously in the direction of the Colorado River.

“Whitfield! You son of a bitch! You lied to me, saying we were investigating military procurement kickbacks! Turns out it's Aliens! Turns out even the Deep State is split into two factions!”

“I've followed you for six years! You didn't mention a single word to me!”

Listening to Moran launch into a long-distance tirade in the empty bedrock tunnel against the director far away in Washington, Lewis lowered his gun, letting it hang from the sling across his chest.

Pursuing his dry lips, he nudged a step forward, looked at Musk and Edward, and after a moment of silence, spoke softly.

“Does your faction of the Deep State... have a kill order out on us?”